


Prepaid Passion

by afrakaday



Series: Liaising With the Frenemy [4]
Category: The Closer
Genre: F/M, Phone Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-09
Updated: 2012-08-09
Packaged: 2017-11-11 18:32:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,265
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/481568
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/afrakaday/pseuds/afrakaday
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Explaining the origins of the “booty call burn phone.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Prepaid Passion

 

Fritz Howard lay back in the king-sized hotel bed, hands behind his head on the pillow, completely sated and content to revel in what should have been a blissfully relaxing moment. Sharon Raydor, however, had reached for her Blackberry pretty much the moment he'd rolled off her. He sighed. How had he ended up with a mistress nearly as likely to be called away in the middle of a romantic evening as his wife?

"Officer-involved shooting," she informed him, unsolicited, after sending a quick text. "The FID team is already there, so I don't have to go. They'll brief me in the morning."

"It's nice to be the boss, once in a while," he said, pleased that she wouldn't be leaving him alone in the expensive hotel room with two dozen chocolate-covered strawberries and a one-pound bag of Twizzlers.

"Hmmm. Yes," she agreed. "Would be a shame not to have taken advantage of that tub." She gestured to the over-sized whirlpool tub incongruously located next to the window of their fourth-floor tower room. She turned back to her phone, scrolling through her text messages. "You know, 'Dwight,' you might want to be a little more circumspect in your future text message content. 'I got us a room at the Chateau Marmont, come over after eight so I can fuck you into oblivion'? I appreciate the sentiment, really, I do," she assured him, patting his chest, "but you use your phone for work. And doesn't Brenda know the code to unlock it?"

"She does," he admitted.

"This kind of message can't be so explicit, Fritz," she lectured mildly, "the pseudonyms only go so far."

"I deleted that message from my phone as soon as I sent it," he said in his defense. "But actually, Brenda picked up my phone the other day out of curiosity and wanted to know who 'Confidential Informant 69' was." Fritz glanced at her phone sheepishly, his offending one being in a pants pocket somewhere in a heap on the floor.

Sharon smacked his arm and gave him a wide-eyed look of concern. "I told you that would only be inconspicuous if you had a bunch of other numbered CI's in your contacts! You don't, do you? What did you tell her?"

"That it was related to an ongoing, highly sensitive investigation and I wasn't at liberty to discuss it."

Sharon giggled. "Hmm, good save. You have been conducting a rather thorough investigation, after all, haven't you, Agent Howard?"

"I have," he said. "Why don't you work on filling that tub, and then I'll continue with my... sensitive investigative efforts?"

She leaned over and kissed her way across the sparse smattering of hair on his chest. "I thought you'd never ask." She gracefully moved over him, allowing him to take in the sight of her naked form as she swung her legs off the bed.

She walked over to the tub and began running the tap with warm water. From the bed he watched her, perched on the edge of the tub as she waited for it to fill, while he considered their mutual potential problem. After a few minutes he thought he'd come up with a pretty good idea, drawing on his experience in dealing with actual confidential witnesses.

The issue temporarily resolved and the water level sufficiently high, he brought the box of strawberries over to the side of the tub and stepped into the bath, pulling her in on top of him as she fell into his arms with a squeal and a splash.

* * *

Fritz felt vaguely guilty as he surveyed the rotating rack containing the gas station's finest selection of prepaid mobile cellular devices. This was about as formal a step as he and Sharon were ever likely to take in their relationship: the acquisition of phones to be used for the sole purpose of arranging surreptitious meetings. The process reminded him of picking out an engagement ring, except that this was a lot less expensive. And, well, wrong.

But if they were going to keep this up--and for now, it was looking like they would--then Sharon was right. They needed a more discreet means of coordinating their trysts.

He selected a pair of inexpensive flip phones from a reputable national provider and two one-hundred-minute cards, figuring they wouldn't need that many minutes; and that if they did need more phone time, it would be reasonably easy to obtain.

His next stop was the post office, where he scrawled Sharon's home address on a padded Priority Mail envelope. Looking around and seeing no one he recognized, he dropped the phone, still in its clamshell packaging, inside the envelope; along with a note with his new number written on it and the message, "Dwight Howard's unlisted number." He couldn't help but smile, imagining her reaction, as he sealed the package.

"Would you like delivery confirmation or insurance today?" the postal clerk asked him brightly once he finally reached the front of the long line.

“No, thanks,” he said, handing the girl a ten-dollar bill.

“There’s no return address on this envelope, would you like to include one?”

“No,” he said shortly, looking over his shoulder and willing her to move things along.

“All right, that should be delivered in two business days,” the girl chirped, handing him his change. Fritz thanked her and stepped out and into the sun, looking forward to hearing from Sharon. He pulled out his phone and edited the contact information for “CI-69,” replacing the jocular title once more with her name.

* * *

Sharon and Gavin tumbled out of a cab and through the front door of her building, the doorman giving them a sidelong glance as they giggled and leaned into one another. “Oh my God,” she said, stopping to catch her breath inside the lobby. “That is one trip to the ballet we are not likely to forget.”

Gavin nodded in agreement, his laughter regressing into mere snickers. “Oh, the look on her _face_ when she realized she was going down!”

“The look on his when she farted!” she rejoined, grasping his hand for support. “It was absolutely classic.” Sharon’s subscription seats in the orchestra pit had given them a prime view of the evening’s spectacle, in which the poor dancer playing Odette/Odile had passed gas rather loudly while suspended in the air by Siegfried’s strong arms. Taken aback, his impassive face had distorted in disgust, and soon Odette was reduced to an ungainly heap of white feathers on the floor. The young ballet company had given more good than bad performances over the past few years, in Sharon’s discriminating estimation, but tonight had fallen into the category of so bad it was good. She and Gavin had rehashed the moment over and over again afterward over sushi and sake, cracking each other up with their best impressions of the distressed dancers. After finally getting pushed out of the restaurant at closing time, they had decided to keep their Friday evening rolling with one more nightcap at Sharon’s apartment.

“I need to grab my mail, Gav. I didn’t have a chance to do it after work, I was in such a rush to meet you. It’ll just take a second,” she said apologetically as they rounded the corner to the elevators.

“Of course,” he said, indifferent. He hit the button and stood waiting, occasional giggles still forthcoming.

Sharon pulled out her keys and located the small one that opened her mailbox. The stack she pulled out contained a few catalogues, bills, and credit card applications, as well as a large padded envelope addressed to her in a vaguely familiar hand. She flipped the package over, noting the absence of a return address, and tucked it under her elbow thoughtfully as she walked into the open elevator Gavin was holding for her.

“I can’t wait to get out of these shoes,” she sighed, leaning against the wall for support as the elevator began to rise.

“Beauty is painful, Sharon,” Gavin said solemnly.

She swatted him with the padded envelope. “Says the man who has the luxury of wearing perfectly broken-in Prada loafers.”

“Ouch!” he exclaimed, affecting injury to his tender forearm. “What the hell is in that thing, Sharon? That hurt!”

Frowning, she looked over the package again and poked at it, trying to discern what might be inside. “Actually, I have no idea.”

Gavin snatched it from her hand. “Well, well, well. A mystery package? Doesn’t that seem rather suspicious, Captain?”

She had to admit to herself that it did. She wasn’t exactly the most popular person at the LAPD, and her home address was available to anyone on the force with the requisite level of access. Still, she couldn’t recall any recent FID investigations to have been particularly acrimonious. “The handwriting is kind of familiar,” she offered lamely. “It's probably fine.”

The ding of the elevator stopped them from continuing the conversation, and Gavin followed Sharon to her apartment, examining the package with curiosity. He held it up to his ear as if to listen for ticking.

“I don’t think it’s a bomb,” he said helpfully, as she struggled with her key in the lock.

She raised her eyebrows at him and smirked as the tumbler finally released. “We’ll just have to see.” She set the stack of mail down on a side table and headed for her bedroom. “Would you please open some wine?” she called over her shoulder.

Sinking down onto her bed, Sharon unfastened the ankle straps and tossed the offensively uncomfortable but delightfully frilly Badgley Mischka party shoes in the direction of her closet; she could put them away tomorrow. She stuffed her sore feet in the battered Uggs she kept swearing she would throw out, but continued to wear around the house anyway. Returning to the living area, she found Gavin working on a very large glass of red wine while looking at his phone. She cleared her throat, and Gavin jumped guiltily.

It was then that she realized the envelope was sitting on the couch next to her friend, and that he kept looking between it and her. “Okay, confession time. You opened my package, didn’t you.” It came out a good-natured statement of fact, not a question.

“I was just looking out for you, Shar. What if it had contained some terrible toxin?” His allegedly altruistic motive fooled neither of them. Gavin was a gossip whore with an insatiable inquisitive streak, and they both knew it.

“Hmm. Well as it happens, I know a bunch of police officers who recently underwent special Homeland Security training just to deal with such things. But I’m grateful you were willing to put yourself in the line of fire for me.” She smiled widely and sat down next to him, picking up the package and placing it in her lap. The flap had indeed been unsealed.

“Opening other people’s mail is a federal crime, you know,” she lectured with a smirk. “You better pour me a glass of that so I don’t press charges.”

“Done,” he said, rising to grab a second glass from the cabinet. Sharon turned her attention to the open package. Taking a deep breath, she reached into the envelope and pulled out a heavily packaged cell phone.

She read the unsigned note and started laughing as Gavin tried to hand her the requested wine. He gave up for the moment and looked down over her shoulder at the note.

“So I was actually googling Dwight Howard just now. Are you really having an affair with the twenty-five year old starting center for the Magic, Shar?” he asked, deadpan. “It must be hard, what with him being in Orlando and you living here.” He accompanied the geographic observation with hand motions apparently intended to represent the distance between Florida and Southern California.

Sharon snorted into her wine and rolled her eyes. “Fake name,” she explained. “He came up with it while watching a Lakers-Magic game a couple of weeks ago, thought he was being _soooo_ funny when he changed his contact info in my phone.”

“And now he’s taken the next step and gotten you a burn phone,” he surmised. “I think this is Fritz asking you to go steady.”

“It’s merely a preventative measure,” she said. “You should have seen some of the nonsense he was texting me from his work phone.”

“Well, I have to admit it makes sense,” he said. “Long term affairs require that the participants avail themselves of certain evasive technologies. Although in my experience, this type of subterfuge is most common to the political types, and the married ones. And particularly the married politicians experimenting outside their usual orientation.” He took the phone out of her lap and handed her the wine before examining the package. Gritting his teeth, he tore open the stiff plastic packaging and looked over the phone critically. “I don’t think I’ve seen a phone like this since 2003.”

“I think it will suit its narrow purpose just fine,” she said, taking it back from him. Gavin’s assessment of the item's inherent anachronism was not inaccurate. The flip phone felt foreign in her hand, its bubbly shape so different from the sleek Blackberry to which she'd become accustomed.

Gavin raised his glass in a mocking toast. “To your booty call burn phone!” he said. “May it help keep you both out of trouble and into each other.”

Sharon blushed furiously at his crass benediction, but clinked her glass to his anyway before once again dissolving into a fit of giggles.

* * *

It was nearly one o' clock by the time Sharon had the front desk call Gavin a cab and sent him on his way with a promise of meeting for brunch on Sunday so they could dish about the date he had planned for the following evening. Sharon started straightening up the living room, placing throw pillows just so and collecting the empty wine glasses. The phone sat silent on her coffee table.

She was interested in trying out her new toy, but she wasn't sure how this kind of thing worked. She guessed that Fritz would tell Brenda his device was for the purpose of staying in contact with a witness in a case, which was fine, but that didn't mean she could feel free to call him whenever she felt like it. It wouldn't do to become overly accessible, anyway.

Washing the glasses in the sink, she mulled over her options. She could wait for him to call her, she supposed; but part of her also wanted to let him know that she had received his gift and appreciated the gesture. Another part of her simply wanted to hear his voice, to talk with him before she went to sleep. She shivered and made a decision.

Stepping into her office, she forewent the overhead light in favor of the softer lamp and sat down at her computer. Passwords entered, she remotely accessed the LAPD servers and clicked on the dispatch activity report. She scanned the chronology of the evening's events, feeling entirely perverse for hoping to find that Major Crimes had gotten called out to a murder.

As it happened, one had. She looked at the clock; the call had gone out two hours ago. Chances were very good that Fritz was alone at the moment.

Sticking her tongue between her teeth in contemplation, she closed her computer and switched off the lamp. Slowly she made her way back to the couch, tucking herself into her favorite corner. She looked at the thing for a moment before picking it up.

"Booty call … burn phone," she mused out loud, turning it over in her fingers. Gavin really did have a way with words sometimes. It sounded like something her kids would say. She pushed the thought of them out of her mind, not wanting to consider what they would think of their mother’s current romantic involvement, as she pressed the power button.

She stretched out her legs on the couch and waited for the phone to connect to whatever network it was connecting to, then selected the contacts list. Gavin, helpful as always, had already typed two numbers: “Fritzi” and “Sex God Gavin.”

“Don’t call him that,” she grumbled under her breath, editing the first name and deleting the second. Taking a deep breath, she hit the call button.

“Hey, hot stuff,” he answered after a third ring. “I was wondering when you were going to get around to letting me know that you got your present.”

She smiled at hearing his voice. “That package was pretty suspect, Fritz. Gavin didn’t want to let me open it.”

“You were with Gavin tonight? What did you do?” He sounded genuinely interested.

Laughing, she said, “We went to the ballet. I’ll have to tell you about it the next time I see you.”

“Sounds good. I’ve been having a quiet night, watched some basketball and then an old western movie.”

“I was apprehensive about calling you,” she admitted. “I checked the dispatch reports to see if it was likely that you were alone.”

“Oh, that was smart. Yeah, it might make sense to text first on these things, see if the other person is available to talk.”

“All right,” she said in a flirty tone. “But you’re available now?”

“Mmm-hmm.” She could imagine him sprawled out in an armchair in front of the television. She guessed he was probably wearing an undershirt and sweatpants, and decided she wanted to know for sure.

“So what are you wearing?” She couldn’t believe she was asking the cliched question first.

“Right now? Undershirt and sweatpants. What are you wearing?"

Sharon looked down at her body. "A grayish-blue dress with a low-cut cowl neck and black lace cap sleeves. The material's so soft. I think you'd like it." She decided it would be best to omit the Uggs from the sartorial summary.

"Sounds fancy. I think I'd like it better if you were out of it, though."

"Is that an order?"

"Just a suggestion," he said easily. "I like thinking about you naked in your bed."

"Well, I'm not there yet," she said, rising from the couch and reaching for the side zipper as she cradled the phone between her ear and shoulder. By the time she reached her bedroom, the dress hung loosely at her waist, and she let it slide down her hips into a pool at her feet. "Okay. The dress is off and I'm in bed now."

“I’m turning off the television and am all yours,” he said. “Get comfortable. I am.”

She pulled back the covers and slid between them, the clean, cool sheets feeling wonderful against her bare skin. “Keep talking,” she said as she went to work removing her bra and underwear. “I need a second to get out of my panties.”

“I’m thinking about what I would do to you if I were there with you...”

“Do _to_ me?” she asked, amused. “What about with me?”

“That too. First I would kiss you from the top of your head down to your perfect ankles.”

Sharon giggled, delighted. Her ankles, sore from eighteen hours on three-inch heels, could use some loving. “Then what?”

“I’d make my way back up, focus on your lips, neck, nibble on your ear. Slide my hand down your body to between your legs as I’m kissing you.”

“What’s happening with my breasts?” she interrupted, swirling her fingers around and across her nipples, teasing them into peaks. “I’m touching them now, Fritz. I love when you play with them...” She palmed one, feeling its heft, imaging it was his larger hand as she stroked her thumb harder over the nipple.

“I’m not to your breasts yet. I’m still touching your pussy, softly at first, but then when you start to hum, I know that you’re ready for more. My fingers slide through so easily, you’re already wet, and I touch your clit the way I know you like it.” He paused, suddenly breathing a little heavily. “Are you doing it, Sharon? Are you touching yourself the way you like?”

“Yes,” she moaned, circling her clit patiently. She could feel the gentle thrumming of sexual tension flowing through her body; the sensation heightened whenever he spoke. "Tell me what you're doing."

"What do you think I'm doing?" It was his turn to be amused.

"I think you're stroking your cock," she said, emphasizing the last word. "If I were there right now, I would get on my knees in front of you and lick it from base to tip, just once, and then suck on just the head." She hummed as she might in the midst of the act. "I'd drive you crazy, using my tongue on the tip while holding your balls."

"I'd push your head down further, make you take all of me in your mouth," he said. She could feel his teasing grin over the phone. He would never do any such thing, but if he did try to pull a stunt like that...

"I would pull back and smack you," she said, breathy.

"Yeah, you would," he agreed. "Let's try that again. Your mouth is on my cock..."

"And I'm sucking you off," she said, moving her fingers slowly back and forth over her clit. "I'm using my hand to slide along your cock as I do it. You're starting to squirm, getting close." She knew she was, and she hoped she wasn't totally off base as to how things were moving along for him. "And I'm more than ready for you."

"You want me to fuck you?" he asked rhetorically.

"Oh yes," she murmured, dipping her fingertips into her opening, sliding her sticky fingers up to her clit and back down again. Imagining it was his fingers, his mouth on her...

"Get out your vibrator. I want you to fuck yourself with it," he said in a low growl. She made a vaguely affirmative noise as she reached over to her nightstand drawer and retrieved the toy. Why hadn't she thought of that herself, she wondered. Then she wondered how he had.

"How'd you know I had a vibrator?" she demanded to know.

"I've looked in your bedside drawer before, Sharon." His voice was growing strained, his breathing audible over the slightly crackly connection.

"Hmmm." Fair enough, she decided as she positioned the battery-powered purple vibrator. She and Fritz had achieved a certain level of intimacy that surely encompassed scoping out her sex aid drawer without fear of retribution.

"Okay. I've got my vibrator. It's not as big as you, though," she lied.

"Yeah?" he said, pleased. "Are you wet?"

"Very," she said, sliding it in. She twisted the knob at the base, initiating a low-level vibration that made her moan. "That's it."

"Touch your nipples while you fuck yourself," he suggested. "You like it when I do that when I'm fucking you."

"Put more lotion on your cock so it feels like you're inside me," she countered.

"Already did," he muttered. "Nothing feels as good as your sweet pussy, though."

"Yeah," she said on a long exhale. She moved the toy in and out, growing closer to the edge with each bump of the rabbit-shaped stimulator to her clit. If she closed her eyes, she could almost believe he was here, driving deep, setting a steady rhythm...but her vibrator couldn't create the feeling of his body over hers, his lips ghosting over her eyelids and nose, suckling at her neck, his hand reaching behind her head to bring her lips to his in a crushing kiss as he neared release. He always kissed her right before he came. She liked that about making love with him.

“I need you,” she whispered. “It isn’t the same.” She turned up the intensity on the knob.

“Say it, Sharon. Say it again.”

“I need you, Fritz.” She listened carefully, blocking out the sound of low buzzing between her thighs. She thought she could hear him whacking it at a furious pace, though it may have been her imagination. “I need for you to come for me. I need you to come inside me.”

A shattered grunt was his only answer. She spoke. “Now I’m going to.” She bucked her hips against her own hand, finding the right pressure, letting the rabbit do its work, and followed behind him in a series of spastic shudders.

She withdrew the fake phallus with a sigh, switching it off and tossing it into the space beside her where he would be recovering right now if he’d actually been here. “I came, Fritz,” she said to break the silence, feeling conflicted. It wasn’t a bad orgasm-- certainly better than the three-minute affair she might have indulged in by herself without his help-- but it paled in comparison to having sex with a partner. With _this_ partner, she realized. And she’d basically just said as much out loud to him.

“Me too. I’m getting cleaned up,” he said, sounding as lazy as she felt.

“Wish you were here right now,” she admitted to him.

“Hm. Soon. Maybe this week.”

She pulled the phone away from her ear and looked at the display. “We used up a lot of our minutes.”

Fritz laughed. “I was worried about that.”

“You can get me more,” she said.

“Or we can just make more of an effort to arrange to get together in person,” he said.

She hummed softly. “That would be nice.”

She barely managed to snap the phone closed before falling into slumber.  



End file.
